Page 43 of Illicit

She wipes her hands on a rag and tosses it to the bar.

I look down at Teagan. We might not be in the worst part of town, but she looks oddly comfortable in her skin.

Older.

Confident.

Cunning.

Shit. I cannot think about her moving to New York.

The thought causes me to tighten my arm around her and dip my face into the loose waves she spent too much time perfecting when she took over my bathroom. “You okay?”

When she tips her face to mine, all I can think about is my threat to kiss her again. As if the memory of her for the last two years wasn’t painful enough, now it’s no longer a memory. The reality of Teagan standing here in my arms is a million times better.

Also, a million times more frustrating.

She’s like a diamond being dangled in front of me, reminding me of her perfection and beauty, and my burning desire to obliterate every relationship that’s more important to me than my own life.

Tim and Annette love me. I can say that with confidence.

Annette says it. Tim shows it.

But loving a stray because you’re good people and loving that same stray for your youngest daughter are two very different things.

Teagan slides her hand up my abs, pec, and brings it to a stop over my heart as she shoots me a private smile. “I’m good.”

Too good. I feel it plastered up against me, even if it is for show. There was nothing normal about my morning wood after sleeping next to her all night. Just the simple touch of her leg was too much.

The only reason I didn’t jerk off in the shower was to prove to myself that I have the self-control to be this close to her and not cross the line.

Because crossing that line would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

You know, as soon as I convince her not to hate me.

The waitress breaks into my forbidden thoughts and talks more like we’re meeting a Fortune 500 CEO rather than a man suspected of human trafficking. “Mr. Robichaux said he’s expecting you. Follow me.”

Too eager, Teagan shifts out of my hold, but I catch her hand and hold tight. The chatter of the bar becomes muted as we walk down a dark hallway and up a set of narrow stairs. Our footsteps echo off the old wood while the scent of stale alcohol and hints of smoke permeate the air.

Undercover hasn’t been my thing since I moved here. I’ve done buys here and there, but there’s something about me that criminals don’t trust, which is fucked, since I was raised by them and skirted the line of becoming one myself.

The waitress knocks on the door at the top of the staircase. A few moments pass, but when it finally does, the hint of smoke is gone. When the door opens, we’re hit by chatter and music through a cloudy room.

The three of us file in. As soon as I get a look around, the urge to get this shit done and get Teagan out of here overwhelms me.

Jules is sitting in a leather chair across the room from what looks like a high-stakes poker game. The waitress goes straight to him, runs her fingers across his neck, and says, “Can I get you anything, baby?”

His gaze hangs on her tits while his free hand runs up the inside of her thigh and disappears under her short skirt.

I think it’s safe to say her number one job is not to serve drinks, which also confirms my suspicions that Robichaux dabbles in more than one crime.

He finally looks up at her and exhales a lungful of smoke. “Later, when the boys are done with the game.”

She leans down and presses her lips to his temple.

He smacks her ass before she saunters back to the stairs.

I don’t take my eyes off Jules even though my entire being is focused on the woman plastered to my side. She might’ve been good just a few moments ago, but this is not her scene.

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